


Tale as old as time

by Rakshasha



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beauty and the Beast Elements, High Fantasy, M/M, Nogitsune as a separate identity, Omega Stiles Stilinski, a mix of tropes and AUs, a/b/o is very much in the background here, beauty and the beast inspired au, but I have plans for this one-shot, no beta we die like man, one-shot for now, possibly a long fic in the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshasha/pseuds/Rakshasha
Summary: “Tell me, Stiles, what doyouwant?”The world narrows to this single moment. Stiles with his heart in his throat and the Nogitsune’s undivided attention sharp and unrelenting. Time seems to crawl into a standpoint, thick like molasses, as Stiles’ mind swirls. When the answer comes it feels all too grand and much too simple, one word:“More.” A beat of his heart, a lick over his lips and black eyes watching. “I want more.”
Relationships: Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 11
Kudos: 138





	Tale as old as time

**Author's Note:**

> This has been inspired by a different Beauty and the Beast AU for the Venom movie, actually, it's here - [All Guts and Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18401471) \- for the curious ones. It's truly beautiful, so I recommend to anyone that's into Symbrock! And although this fic has absolutely nothing in common with it - I only got the idea from there - it also absolutely deserves the shout out.  
> I've had this idea stuck in my head ever since, so it's very possible I'll make this into a long fic when I'm done with _Look into the Abyss_ , but for now it's just this one-shot. I think it works quite well and I'm happy with how it turned out. I also admit that I'll let myself go a bit with this one, but oh well, that's what happens when I miss writing some more fantasy-feeling prose. 
> 
> And this is unbetad, so any mistakes are my own! Hope y'all will enjoy! ❤

It’s not what Stiles expected – but then again, how could he? – as the previous night, sky seared in half by a brilliant, white strike of a falling star, he wished, _desperately_ , for something to happen. To let him get away, to see something more, to experience, to _feel_ something more than this boring, lazy, every-day-is-the-same existence of his small town offered. And maybe there was that once upon a time visit from the residing Kitsune of the land, but they rarely ever mingled about – just passing through, stopping in the tavern that’s probably the only nice thing about this place. Stiles lived here all his life, he’d know.

And so the day started much the same as any other – he helped his dad around the smithy in the morning, made food for breakfast and left some for his dad if he got hungry before he got back, then wandered out into the surrounding woods. Another one of the things the town’s folk looked down on Stiles for – an omega that dared not to roll over for each and every available alpha, that talked back, that didn’t care about others’ opinions, and, on top of that, traversed deep into the forest where no one but the hunters was allowed or dared to go.

Maybe Stiles did it out of spite. Maybe he did it because his mom used to take him to one specific clearing, not as deep as he goes now, but deep enough, or maybe, just maybe, it’s the way he feels out there. Calm. Peaceful. _Connected_. To the trees around, to the animals scouring about, to the water in the spring and the leaves falling down and the sky above and the earth under. He's wondered, many a time, if it’s just a human thing to experience it so, or is it maybe, possibly something just… his.

That day Stiles’ daydreams of a life far away and a place to _belong_ get cut in half by a rumble in the distance. The heavy, cold loneliness, a sour aftertaste of wishing and praying and regret and _shame_ – because isn’t his life good, here with his dad, yet he longs for something indescribable – washes away for a spike of alarm, of adrenaline as the sound grows closer, branching into growls and shrieks and then–

Screams.

 _Human_ screams.

Stiles is up and running in a heartbeat. Branches swapping at his face, tangling his feet, but he tears through them like his life depends on it – no, not _his_ life. Because the closer he gets to the awful, soul-wrenching cacophony the clearer it gets that it comes from the town. His town. And his dad’s in the smithy. In the _middle._

Smoke is already climbing high up the sky when Stiles breaks out of the forest to the fields surrounding the town – bright and scream-filled and flames engulfing the buildings and licking up the air with their orange tongues and black tendrils of exhaust that he can already feel in his lungs, coughing up at the acrid taste. His eyes water and he wavers on his feet, trying to see anything through the panic, through the people running around, but he’s too far away still. And despite what his instincts scream at him, what he knows he should logically do, Stiles shakes off the grip of a nameless someone he probably knows but can’t be bothered to remember the name now and _runs_ right into the fray, into the middle of the heat and death and shrieks.

Whatever attacked their town – a small thing, nothing significant about it beyond the tavern and the merchants that sometimes travel through, why, _why_ would anyone paint a target on them – it’s neverending, encompassing the whole land in and around, pouring through every street, flames and smoke and the scent of death and decay, somehow freezing in the unbearable heat.

Stiles pushes through – the town’s folk screaming filling the air just as much as the blood-curdling shrieks and the bodies trying to escape, take him with or trample to the ground so he doesn’t get in the way of their panicked retreat, and the weird _something_ that must be the foulest of foul magic, the exact opposite of the serenity of the forest, a bloodied maw and flesh-tearing claws and endless, mindless suffering. The moment he stops to try and orient himself, see through the black and smoke and brightness of the flames, these– these _monstrosities_ emerge from the dark, humanoid but not, animalistic but worse. _Demons_ , Stiles’ mind supplies, even though they seem so much _worse_ than the simple word ever meant to him. They bear gleaming white, black-bloodied fangs and red-shining eyes and bodies part-fur, part-armor, part-nonmaterialistic something, and Stiles finds himself rooted to the spot, eyes tearing up and body trembling and unable to do _anything_ as the beasts on the other end of the street roar and rush him and–

They don’t even manage half a distance between them and their prey – Stiles frozen and just waiting to be killed.

A horrifying shriek shakes the ground, breaking Stiles out of his shock so he covers his ears because it _hurts_. He barely just manages to catch the lightning-fast flash of silvery shine – were those flames? maybe even lightning itself? – as the beast crumbles to the ground, gurgling up black blood. On his knees, Stiles looks up, but through the tears-blurred vision can’t see much more of anything. Whatever killed the beast charging him seems to blend with the shadows like they welcome it, like somehow it’s a demon himself, but why kill the monster then? There’s a flash of silver on the person and a swish of a blade when it cuts the air, a beautiful arc of silvery-blue – the finest steel they only ever heard about in stories and his dad sighed regrettably about, knowing he’ll never see it for his own eyes.

_Dad!_

The mysterious figure instantly forgotten, Stiles scrambles to his feet and runs the other way, somehow, someway finally seeing clear where he is and where to go. There’s another, much quicker and far easier to miss glint of silver, like eyes in the dark, then the stranger also turns around and the beasts’ shrieks fill up the town.

✦✧✦✧

Times passes in a blur. It feels like both hours and seconds as Stiles runs through the wide streets and checks any place he can think of, scraps his throat raw with screaming and coughing and raw sobs because _his dad isn’t there._ Wherever he turns, wherever he looks, he’s not there. The hope to find him is long gone, yet Stiles won’t give up his fruitless search, dodging falling debris and barely escaping more beasts. It’s like the town is already empty but for him and monsters when there’s a tumult, a growing sound like drums or growls or–

Hoves.

They ride right past him, seemingly glowing in the shadows and the sun’s absence, tearing through the rest of that foul army with calm determination, Wind and Water on the banners and armor. It’s the Kitsune, Stiles belatedly realizes, the closest clans coming to fight the threat. Then it’s over faster than he can fathom, the horrifying shrieks sounding only in the distance, angrier, somehow, deeper, shaking the ground but seemingly far away as Stiles is rounded up on the edge of the forest with what’s left of the town’s folk. He’s frantically looking around at the other groups and doesn't stop even as he’s shoved down to his knees – the soldier probably only intends for him to sit down, yet the faint scent of an alpha hangs bitter in the air – but it’s hard to see clearly where the smoke is still thick and his sight can’t stop blurring up.

The Kitsune that came to their rescue – _too late,_ Stiles thinks, _not fast enough to save them_ – gather under the shade of the trees, just to the side of the survivors that are guarded by their young and the people serving under their banners. Stiles pays them no mind, searching, looking, _crying_ –

A hand waves above the head of the third group, smeared with dirt and oils and–

Stiles almost shots up to his feet, but a hand stills him, a growled “Stay down” keeping him in place even though normally he’d rebel – but the relief is too strong and makes him too boneless to care for that. His dad is _alright_ , smiles from the distance, suddenly clear even through the blurriness of tears. Hastily wiping them away, Stiles nods and keeps his dad’s gaze, letting him know he’s okay. It’s the only thing that matters now, anyway, whatever happens next, whatever the Kitsune decide to do with them, at least Stiles knows for sure his dad’s still alive. And if he has any say in it, they’ll never get parted again.

Just then a sudden, ground-shaking growl makes all of them whip their heads around, to the source that seems to be way out in the woods. Sounds of battle, muffled but distinct enough to be recognizable reaching their ears. Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest and he can’t help but look at the gathered lords, the powerful beings holding the land and their safety in their hands. His dad’s relatively safe now, as much as any of them can be, so he lets himself analyze them and–

It’s downright weird.

Why are they here and not fighting whatever it is out there? Did another clan came, but steered right for that other threat? But why wouldn’t they help now, when the town's already burning back down and survivors are secured?

The air’s already starting to clear out, the flames dying down and Stiles’ eyes finally easing from the stinging smoke, when the distant battle quiets with one final long shriek of agony.

Stiles blinks, confused in the face of the Kitsune’s reaction. They shift on their feet, grimacing and seemingly stuck in a frustrated impassion, like the victory doesn’t quite satisfy them, like somehow it only sours their mood. And even then, with their faces contorted into such expressions, Stiles can’t quite help himself but think they’re beautiful, every single one of them. He only ever saw two passing through the town and never was able to see much, always pushed to the back of the crowd that gathered to look – now, though, now he can look freely.

Some wear heavy armor, adorned with amazingly crafted details and carvings and paints, each one a piece of art on its own, some wear flowing robes of the finest material that seems slick and soft and would probably feel a little bit like heaven. The Wind clan wears shimmering gray-blue that’s not quite silver or white, the pale blue sky or the stormy gray but like something in-between and all of them at once, with carvings of leaves and flowers dancing on the breeze. The Water clan is all blues and greens and teal and all the possible colors of the flowing rivers and deep lakes and the vast oceans Stiles only ever heard about in his mom’s tales – it reminds him of mermaids, the shells and scales and waves, which the stories were full of and wonders idly somewhere in the back of his mind if they’re real, if maybe they know these Kitsune, maybe they’re even allies? His heart throbs, the ever-old, ever-there ache pulsing through his chest – will he even get a chance to see that seemingly endless water for himself, now? Waiting on his knees for the verdict on his life?

He blinks the tears away, swallows through the echoing pain and bounding realization he may never be free again – even if the town’s life wasn’t much of a freedom, at least it was a good illusion. But there’s no use in these thoughts, so he shakes himself out of it – what happens, happens. The only thing he needs to care about is to make sure his dad’s alive and well and maybe, _maybe_ , trying to keep them together. And just as Stiles clears his head, the mood shifts and the Kitsune straighten all at once. They’re looking into the woods, to the darkness in-between the trees and Stiles can’t help but look too, curiosity breaking through the haze of everything that happened.

A lone figure appears, not as if coming from a distance, but materializing from the very shadows of the forest. The darkness seems to shimmer at the edges of the stranger, writhing and pulling and somehow keeping him both sharply in focus and making it impossible to see the person clearly. Stiles squints and blinks and unconsciously leans forward.

The first thing that he can finally catch when they walk out is their attire.

It looks like half-armor, half-robes – a combination of the two that gleams in the dying light of the day. All black, so deep and so dark it feels like it devours every other color besides the shimmering silver of the chain mail and the plates and carvings along the protective parts – it reminds Stiles of the night sky, full of stars, bright and falling, the moon hung high above. The clothes are nothing short of the finest quality, the strongest and the softest leather, the lightest and the best steel, the dark material flowing and almost liquidy where it sits on the stranger’s strong body. Stiles would blush at his wonderings if his heart didn’t skip a terrified beat as he finally notices what is the most important piece of clothing.

The Tails Coat.

Or, at least, that’s how Stiles calls it inside his head.

It’s the pride and glory of every Kitsune – a representation of their power, their honor, with the number of tails on the coat being the exact one the Kitsune possessed. Falsing it or trying to wear the Tails Coat while not being one of them was among the gravest insults. And as vastly different as this stranger’s attire is from the other Kitsune, they _must_ be one – the Tails Coat is unmistakable.

Its sight steals Stiles’ breath. And not only his, if the gasps around – not only from the town’s folk but even the young ones and the soldiers – are any indication.

The Coat fits the rest of the clothes seamlessly, the same night-sky deep black dotted with starlight, but the _tails_ – white-tipped and curving from the back, brushing all the way down to their ankles they swish and curl and slither around their legs like living beings, strong and thick and _long_ , and there’s _many, so many_ of them. Stiles tries to count and loses it at seven, counts again and it’s nine now, and counts again and it’s impossible to be _ten_ , but _maybe it is,_ or maybe– maybe–

Maybe they have so many it’s impossible to show all.

There’s a commotion in the group of the Kitsune standing off to the side and Stiles realizes – this must be the one they were waiting for, the one that took care of the battle in the distance, the one–

He blinks and, all at once, _sees_ that the stranger is bloodied. They carry a katana in one hand that glints silvery-blue like the flash of light in the town the memory of which is suddenly so clear Stiles’ heart stutters, and that in the other hand they hold a head, cut off at the neck and maw gaping, dead eyes still shining red. It’s even bigger and even scarier and somehow feels even fouler, streaks of red in its fur, like magic symbols and blood. It must weigh as much as Stiles himself and yet they carry it without a problem – then they throw it right at the feet of the other Kitsune.

“ _Void_ ,” someone says, like a sour greeting or a curse, like the name grinds their teeth.

“You’re _welcome_ , no need to thank me.” The stranger answers, sarcastic and purring, wiping away blood from the blade. The voice is distinctly male, deep and dark and raspy – as if woven with the faintest edge of a growl, trapped just under his vocal cords.

Transfixed by the motion, Stiles looks up and watches the katana, the hands handling it, pale and strong and big, the wide chest and broad shoulders, and can’t help himself but follow _up_ , even though he shouldn’t, it’d be deemed disrespectful if he was caught, but he _can’t help_ himself and his gaze travels – to a pale throat speckled with blood that would normally disgust him but does the opposite now, to a sharp cut jaw, to full pale lips curved in a smirk and now he can’t stop, searching and looking and– and–

His gaze catches the midnight black eyes of the stranger – fathomless and glinting and _looking right at him_.

Stiles’ heart stops.

He can’t move, he can’t breathe, and for a second the world disappears.

There was that old legend – fairy tale, really – that his mom used to love telling him about. He remembers her saying, “It’s a tale as old as time,” with a gentle, loving smile on her lips and a glimmer in her eyes he always interpreted just as the story being her favorite. “What? What is it?” he asked back then, eager and curious and impatient to hear it. His mom always smiled brighter at his enthusiasm, yet this time it seemed tinged with something else, too. “You see, love is a powerful thing, sweetie. And the old tale is that there are souls destined to love each other and that they will search through eternity…”

It was beautiful and moving and his mom always told it with reverence. Stiles doesn’t remember the details, but he does remember the wonder, the yearning, the soul-wrenching longing for the impossibility of the tale, the crushing understanding it’s never going to happen in real life, that _it is_ just a tale, even if as old as time. Now, though, _now–_

“But how would they know they found them?” he asked that first time, eyes big and heart even bigger. His mom’s smile wavered, before softening. “The tale says – _you shall know when you see your likeness reflected and the world will hold its breath for your meeting._ That is the first sign.”

It had sounded magical to him as a kid. And although it was followed by others, this one stuck with him the most. _Your likeness reflected_. It seemed impossible whichever way he thought about it. Maybe exactly like a tale should be, he had thought, gazing into the small mirror, one of the few things left of his mom after she passed away. He mostly avoided his reflection ever since, but–

Stiles knows how he looks. Knows the counters of his face, the slope of his mouth, the pointed end of his nose, the shape of his eyes. He _knows_ all of it and it’s impossible, it freezes his blood and kickstarts his heart and he _can’t look away_ , because– because–

The stranger bears his likeness.

There's the barest hint of a raised brow and a quirk to the corner of the stranger's lips as he cocks his head to the side, just slightly – and all at once, the world rushes back in.

Stiles whips his head down, heart pounding almost painfully on his ribs. Blood rushes in his ears so loud and numbing it’s a wonder he still hears the others around clearly.

With their gazes locked and the world so silent but for his own breath, it has felt like a small eternity, yet it must’ve been only seconds because no one notices.

Someone calls the stranger, derisive and dry and unpleasant – _Void_ , Stiles’ mind supplies, _they called him Void_ – and he must’ve turned to the other Kitsune because the itchy, burning feeling of eyes watching Stiles eases off. Others around him erupt into feverish whispers that he can’t possibly ignore even this off-balance and reeling.

“I’ve heard about him–”

“–they don’t like him, do they?–”

“–he has no clan, lives alone–”

“–they say he never lost–”

“–he steals other’s tails, see how many he has?!”

“–what even is he?”

“A Kitsune, you dumb, don’t you see the tails?”

“Yeah, but–”

“–he’s different–”

“Hush! You shouldn’t be even discussing this!”

“But–”

“Quiet! That’s the Nogitsune. You should know _better–_ ”

Stiles’ heart surges, a painful strike against his frozen lungs, and he shuts his eyes tightly closed. The voices go silent around him, wisely – especially if the tales are true.

The stranger’s, _The Nogitsune’s_ attire makes sense now, as do the tails and the way the Kitsune react to him, even his _name_. Rumors and legends say he’s the most vicious and the most powerful of them – doesn’t follow their beliefs or even their gods, cut off from the other clans, living in solitude far away and only showing up when there’s war or chaos or blood. No one Stiles knows, no one in the town, no one even that traveled through or went out and came back ever saw him. Until today. Until their town burned down and the folk died or fled and Stiles remembered the tale as old as time–

 _No! Stop thinking about it! It’s impossible, it’s_ not _true. Or you just saw wrong, just a trick of the mind, not–_

A hush falls around him, seemingly sudden in his ringing ears and the prickle of someone’s eyes on him is like a blade sliding down his throat. For all he knows hours might have passed since he’s been caught, determined now to sink into the earth and _not_ be noticed, but in the echoing silence around Stiles can’t help but feel as if on display, vulnerable and ripe for taking, on the edge of the group as he is. The burning is back, not as intense as when he ripped his gaze away, yet seemingly even heavier and–

“What will you do with them?” The voice asking wakes goosebumps on Stiles’ skin, level and just barely tinged with curiosity, but it’s that raspy, dark tone of the one Stiles knows now is the Nogitsune.

“Like you care about that now?”

It sounds ironic, elicits a few chuckles and snorts around, but the prickling on Stiles’ skin doesn’t stop and he needs to fight every fiber of his being not to squirm. There’s no answer, but the sensation eases off and then–

“We’ll take them with us, relocate to the villages and towns around...”

Something small, something Stiles didn’t even notice sprouted in his heart, trembling and quivering, dies in that moment. _Hope_. For a new start. A different world. A chance.

But no. Not for him.

Swallowing down the sour disappointment, Stiles clenches his fists and his unseeing eyes lock on the blotched earth beneath his knees as he’s trying to tell himself it’s alright – his dad likes the simple life. And swamped with his thoughts as he is, Stiles misses most of the Kitsune’s words but for the last ones.

“Why? You need people to work?” they ask, less ironic now and seemingly more curious.

Stiles’ mind jolts back to reality then as he realizes to whom the question is directed to and his heart skips a few heavy beats.

“No.” The answer is short, cut, yet– “Take care of the head or I will. You won’t get another chance.”

“You don’t–”

“I’ve already taken the other three, but if you don’t want it–”

Someone curses in a language Stiles doesn’t know, then there are orders thrown around and a small scurry where Stiles supposes the head landed. The Nogitsune’s voice seemed mostly disinterested, like it was nothing of importance, yet the hurried pace of the others contradicts it – Stiles wonders why is that. He’s heard of creatures that carried magic in their bodies, a kind that could be harvested, but also the kinds that were dangerous even after death. For a moment he wishes he could look, ask, _experience_ anything close to what magic may feel like, but–

The prickling, burning sensation is back with vengeance. Heavy and pointed and tensing Stiles’ very muscles. Through the scurry around the head the soft, swishing steps ring like bells in his ears, so clear nothing could possibly distract him from the figure coming _closer_. Others around him tremble, caught between the want to run and the desperation not to bring any attention to themselves, so hushed it’s almost like they don’t even breath, like Stiles’ drumming heart and the steps getting closer are the only things filling the silence.

The heavy, trembling-cold hope that he’ll pass Stiles and move on dies the moment white-tipped tails flick on the corner of his vision, swishing around knee-high black boots with silver clasps and ornaments that make him flare up with a spark of irritation for the quickest of second for the mud that’s getting on the leather. The thought is irrational and bizarre enough it snaps Stiles back to present, makes him shut his eyes tight, a chant of _please, please, please_ in his head that has no direction behind it, nothing but nameless desperation for something even Stiles can’t name.

It’s almost like a collective breath being taken all around him when the steps quiet, right in front of Stiles, and through the smoke still filling the air, the stench of death and panic and fear – something comes through, sweet and heavy and making little sparks of electricity dance on Stiles’ neck. _Not possible_. _He can’t be–_

There’s a swish of material, a crinkle of leather and silver chain-mail as the heat of another body comes closer, lower – Stiles trembles, knuckles white where he tightens his fists. He refuses to open his eyes, all too weak to resist his own curiosity's temptation if he saw the stranger being so close now that he’s inhaling his scent with every breath, a scent that raises gooseflesh all over his skin. The burning feel of eyes on Stiles is almost unbearable.

“Won’t you look at me now?”

The question is almost soft in its tone and yet it rumbles in that voice, _the Nogitsune’s_ voice, heavy and dripping with meaning Stiles can’t help but tremble at, with the reminder he already _did_ and that it was definitely noticed. And if no one else saw before, they’ll gather it soon enough from the wording alone. Will he be punished now, for his slight?

“I wouldn’t dare,” he answers, more breathy and hoarse than he’d like it to sound, and hastily adds, “ _my Lord_ ,” when his father’s horrified face flickers in his vision, warning him to _behave_ , to save his skin instead of being defiant.

But the Nogitsune _chuckles,_ of all things.

“Well, that’s a shame.”

It’s enough to make Stiles blink, almost, _almost_ look up, before he catches himself and goes rigid again, jaw clenched with the effort to deny his curiosity. The Nogitsune makes a small sound in the back of his throat, then there’s movement, a swish of cloth, and–

Stiles shudders as something cold and hard presses just under his chin, like metal and wood and thread, like– like– like _a katana_. The thought makes him swallow harshly as it sets in, but there’s no time to wonder, his head is being tipped back, none-too-gently yet not forcefully – just enough of a pressure that Stiles’ spine goes pliant as he follows. A flare of heat licks at his gut and in-between his lungs that he’d like to think is only defiance, anger at how easily he’s getting commanded, but it’s not, not really. Only his dad’s distant reminders keep Stiles’ mind straight – _be defiant to the town’s folk all you want, Stiles, as long as you’re not hurt because of it. But Them?_ Never _to Them, They won’t tolerate that_.

And yet, here he is, all but coaxed to throw the rules out the window, because–

“Look at me,” the Nogitsune says, low and even and a distant rumble in his chest, the words soft enough to be safely ignored even with Stiles’ omega senses surging up and yet so strong he knows he can’t refuse.

So he doesn’t. Instead, Stiles pries his eyes open on a shuddering breath and looks up sharply before he loses his resolve, the spark of rebellion that always made him snap back at alphas that thought themselves above him flaring up with the heat already raging inside his rib-cage. The Nogitsune’s black eyes glint, a hint of danger, a hint of satisfaction, a shiver down Stiles’ spine as pale lips quirk up in a small smirk.

“Now that’s better,” he murmurs, an undercurrent to his voice not unlike the purring of a cat that just caught his prey. Stiles’ jaw tightens, but he refuses to look away and the Nogitsune’s smirk widens. “Aren’t you a curious, pretty thing,” he muses, dark gaze wandering over Stiles like he has all the time in the world and found himself a new plaything to consider.

It’s a cold spike of understanding – that it may just be exactly that. And yet–

Stiles always prided himself on having great instincts, on knowing who’s a jerk and whom to keep away from – half of it being his own mind, half of it, though he’d be reluctant to admit, being his omega senses. Tuned to respond to the best potential, to the safest option, to warn him about danger and recognize a compatible match.

He’s never found one. A match.

Once or twice it tingled in curiosity, in a _maybe_ that he’d been curious enough to try and explore, but backed off from before anything truly happened, the alpha grating and the instincts dubious. Now, though–

Now Stiles swallows the whimpers that want to escape as he fights the need to bare his throat. And it _doesn’t make any sense_. The Kitsune don’t abide by their roles – choosing their form as it pleases them, even the born ones never taking on one because they’re simply above it, above silly, primal needs and instincts of the lower, mortal beings. And the Nogitsune–

The Nogitsune, this estranged, ancient, magical being that _bears_ _Stiles’ likeness_ – his scent, his confidence, the power he has–

It screams of an Alpha to Stiles’ senses as heated and potent as the fire that consumed the town – and it’s _terrifying_.

It’s terrifying, because it never felt like that – like jumping off of a cliff into the darkness, like excitement and fear and hope and dread, like it’s exactly how it should be and yet makes him want to run. And it’s terrifying because his mom’s favorite tale echoes in Stiles’ mind and the Nogitsune bears his likeness and the more Stiles looks at him the more he _doesn’t want to look away_. Like now that he’s given permission he can’t drag his gaze from him, but instead takes in the impossible that rattles his very heart – can’t help but notice and list how similar and yet how different they are.

Even with the counters of their faces as if drawn by the same line there’s no mistaking them. The Nogitsune’s face is sharper, pale and shadowed, no blemishes, no scars and no moles that dot Stiles’ sun-kissed skin, eyes framed with darkness and purple and Stiles can’t help but think of him as the embodiment of the night sky in the darkest hour just before dawn – only the moon and the stars brightening the way, the sun far away from rising yet giving the black the violet edge of a coming day. And it’s not only the physical differences that would always tell them apart, no – it’s the inherent confidence in the slant of his lips, the ancient knowledge in the dept of his gaze, the very much inhumane calm and level curiosity with which his eyes roam over Stiles as if drinking in the details as much as Stiles does. And it makes him shiver, just strong enough to not go unnoticed.

The Nogitsune’s smile quirks in the corner and the pressure under Stiles’ chin disappears – from the corner of his eyes he catches the sight of a sheathed katana, the tip of its handle what must’ve been used to make him look up. His face flushes, but he holds the Nogitsune’s intrigued gaze steady, easily recognizing the absence of pressure doesn’t mean he should cover again – it seems to please the fox spirit further.

“What’s your name?”

Stiles can’t help but lick at his dry lips, barely holding back a grimace when he tastes the ash and dust, and a shiver as black eyes trace the movement.

“Stiles, my Lord. Everyone calls me Stiles.”

His voice still trembles at the edges, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The Nogitsune tips his head slightly to the side as he considers, gaze lazily wandering over Stiles’ features.

“Stiles…” he repeats, tone musing, raspy and low, and hearing his name like that is not helping the tightly coiled heat in Stiles’ gut, then the Nogitsune smiles again, seemingly at a decision. “You can call me Void.”

And that makes confusion spike sharp and cold at Stiles’ scrambling brain – _what? why?_ _it doesn’t make sense, is it a trap?_ Stiles’ mind is whirring, yet the Nogitsune’s tone snaps him back to attention–

“Now, tell me...”

–back to sharp eyes and a smile that feels both like a threat and a promise.

“...what do you want from life?”

It’s so unexpected Stiles’ mind draws a blank. He blinks, lips parting uselessly, before his gaze catches on the shimmering material of the Nogitsune’s Coat and the previous night comes back sharply. The unending pit of yearning in his belly, the bone-deep ache of longing for something indescribable, just out of reach, so settled through the years it’s a background sensation at all times, flaring in times like these – when Stiles allows himself to _wonder_. How life could be outside the town, out in the world, would his breath catch at the sights to see, would his heart race for someone? The sensations are clogging up his throat as his gaze is kept arrested by those black eyes that seem to look straight into his very soul.

 _You_ , almost bursts out of his lips, so unexpected and mortifying Stiles flinches physically back, swallowing it down as he’s already turning around instinctively searching for–

Stiles stops himself halfway, heart thrumming under his jugular, terrified he just might have offended again and he hastily turns back – but the Nogitsune is looking past him, eyes cold and inquisitive. A low hum sounds from the spirit.

“Is it someone here?” he asks idly, but it somehow feels sharper, colder.

“My dad,” Stiles says before he can blurt out anything else and the Nogitsune’s gaze flits back to him, a barely noticeable quirk to his brow. It wakes up a fear Stiles should’ve probably felt from the very beginning, but it’s too late now, he needs to answer. “A happy, simple life for– for my dad.”

His heart thuds so heavy and loud it’s surprising he can even hear how quivering his voice sounds. It’s also not a lie, but maybe not the whole truth, and that– that’s not getting a pass as the Nogitsune’s sharp gaze narrows on him.

“Good life for your family, understandable, but not what I was asking for.” He doesn’t sound as cold as before, eyes focused as his head tips to the side again and Stiles is momentarily confused before– “Tell me, Stiles, what do _you_ want?”

The world narrows to this single moment. Stiles with his heart in his throat and the Nogitsune’s undivided attention sharp and unrelenting. Time seems to crawl into a standpoint, thick like molasses, as Stiles’ mind swirls. When the answer comes, it feels all too grand and much too simple, one word:

“More.” A beat of his heart, a lick over his lips and black eyes watching. “I want more.”

It’s almost gasped out and Stiles would be ashamed if not for the unrelenting focus of the Nogitsune’s gaze, his impassive expression giving way to something pleased, something dangerous, something all at once too much to handle as Stiles’ senses sing and preen under its attention. He hates it a little, how intense and all-encompassing it feels.

The smirk lifting Nogitsune’s lips is all but a threat.

“Well, ain’t this fortunate then?” he muses, “we might be able to help each other out.”

_What?_

“You see, I lack good company, I’m… bored, for the lack of a better word. And you, Stiles, you’ve intrigued me.” The glint of teeth is a sharp-white smile and Stiles’ stomach drops as gooseflesh rises all over his skin, the intensity of the moment all but too much – the heat in his gut, the coil in his chest, the weight of the Nogitsune’s gaze – and then– “Come with me,” the Nogitsune offers, low and raspy and _intimate_ , and closer than he was a second ago, “come with me and I’ll give you what you want.”

Stiles shudders, not able to look away, doesn’t know if he should lean in or turn around and _run_ , flushed all the way from his cheeks to his neck and idly thinking that the Nogitsune could probably just pluck him up, take him away right here and there without asking anyone anything and no one would peep a word, yet–

“I won’t leave my father behind.”

Is what leaves his throat, surprisingly steady and sure. Stiles can only spare a thought at how he’s disregarding everything his dad ever warned him about, how rude he must be now, how much of a slight he just did, how _that’s it_ , how– how–

How the Nogitsune’s eyes glint like it’s the exact thing he expected. Like Stiles stepped right into a carefully placed trap.

“I thought you may say that,” the Nogitsune muses, easy and relaxed and no less dangerous. “Let’s make a deal–”

 _No_ , Stiles can only think, frantically, _please, no–_

“Agree to come and live with me, and I’ll make sure your dad has the best life he could want. Close by, of course,” he offers, so casually as if they’re talking about trading food and not life-altering promises – because that’s what it is.

And Stiles is not stupid. He sees the gaps and leeways left so open it wouldn’t even need to be twisted if he agreed – and simple agreement won’t cut it, here, Stiles would be bound by his word probably to the end of his life or the deal, whenever, _if_ , the Nogitsune decided to relieve him. By all means, Stiles should be terrified – and part of him is, the logical or the paranoid part that sees he’d probably sign himself away as a short plaything, something for the spirit to amuse himself with and throw out when bored. The Kitsune usually don’t concern themselves with lower folk, but with the Nogitsune– there’s no telling, no word, a gaping maw of darkness and unknown.

Maybe that’s why everything else in Stiles seems to surge and sing and _yearn_. From the bone-deep ache to the heat in his stomach to the way he needs to suppress his urge to bare his throat and _accept_ , his instincts sharp and pulsing and all but screaming at him to agree, seeing it for what it could be – a chance.

His breath shudders as he considers, as he catches the Nogitsune’s gaze trailing over his features again and– The realization punches the breath out of his lungs.

The Nogitsune bears his likeness, yes, and in turn – Stiles bears _his_.

“What does– What would it mean, exactly?” he asks, finally, a little breathless and a lot terrified.

The Nogitsune’s smile changes, just barely – the curve of it secretive, _private_ , like it’s meant only for him.

“Well, I hoped you would tell me.”

And Stiles bites the inside of his cheek almost to the point of blood, the words, the raspy-deep tone of them coiling at the base of his spine. He responds to the Nogitsune so well and so eager it’d be humiliating if he had any mind for it – now, though, Stiles tries to ignore the suggestive purr and clings to a thin-threaded hope it gives him.

Maybe he shouldn’t. He _probably_ shouldn’t. Yet–

Stiles nods, at once awashed in new excitement, in relief, in that jittery feeling of looking out for something _new_ , something _more_. As if the moment his mind accepted what his body already did the weight fell off his shoulders.

“I agree,” he says, calmer and steadier than he feels, keeping still under attentive eyes. “I’ll go with you, I’ll–” his voice hitches as his gut squirms, “–I’ll go and live with you. You have my word.”

The Nogitsune’s mouth breaks into a grin, an expression that almost knocks Stiles off his knees, devilish and mischievous and like too much and not enough all at once.

“And you have mine,” he answers, almost giddy, free hand reaching up to press against his heart and then extending to Stiles in a gesture he recognizes as ancient and important and grand being directed at _him_ , but it’s quick and paired with that smile feels almost… _impure_.

The Nogitsune stands up, a smooth move full of cat-like grace and tails sliding around long legs as Stiles can’t help but trace the movement. Looking up, he wonders what image they make. Him on his knees, dirty and ragged and small, and the Nogitsune standing tall, power and grace and danger coiled under the finest armor. Distantly, Stiles thinks he never had anyone keeping his gaze on him for so long, and his own flickers down only for a second, for the hand extended to him.

“Come,” he says simply, voice hushed and rumbling, for Stiles’ senses only, and it’s not at all a command, yet Stiles finds himself full with the need to obey.

For a moment that stretches into eternity yet lasts no longer than seconds Stiles can only stare, eyes stuck on pale skin and long fingers and wondering – would they grip and cradle and _bruise_.

When he looks up, the Nogitsune’s eyes glimmer with a silver shine and his lips are curved in a knowing smirk. In a threat. Or a promise.

 _Take it_ , it seems to sneer at him, _if you dare_.

Stiles reaches up–

–and takes his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> So... thoughts? ^^ I'd love to read what you think, I'm absolutely taken with this idea and can't seem to shake it off, so definitely let me know what you think ❤
> 
> Also, I'm on tumblr over at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - and I post some thoughts and ideas about different Voiles AUs, my WIPs and the likes, so if it's something you like, definitely look there ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this piece, all the love ❤


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